


The Little Hawke

by MissCricket



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/F, F/M, Inquisitor Carver Hawke, M/M, Multi, Other, Warden Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 20:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11043459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCricket/pseuds/MissCricket
Summary: He was sent to the Conclave, by the Warden Commander, to observe, to report back, and absolutely not under any circumstances interfere. Carver suspects, after waking up in the wreckage of the exploded temple, a magical mark upon his hand, the sky torn open above him and five swords at his throat, that he may have failed in that mission. But trouble always seems to find a Hawke wherever they are, and for some reason people seem to think he should be saving the world...Maker help them all.





	1. Prologue: The Shadows of Kirkwall

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a Kink Meme Fill and then became a monster. Enjoy.

Smoke hung over Kirkwall like a shadowed pall, and an almost unnatural silence had fallen over the stricken city.

 

Carver looked out at the window of the Amell estate towards the hole in Kirkwall’s skyline where the Chantry had once stood and sighed, before turning back to the library room behind him. Everyone was gathered; his brother, his friends, Nathaniel was there, a strange elf with waved lines down his face was talking intimately with Isabela, and even Cullen, captain of the city’s Templars, was there. 

 

Everyone looked exhausted as they discussed what was to be done next.

 

“You need to stay Hawke,” Cullen rubbed a hand through his hair, shadows under his eyes as he looked up at Garrett, “You’re the Champion, the city needs you now more than ever. You’re the only leader it has left.”

 

“I hate to say it, but the Captain has a point Hawke.” Varric pointed out quietly, from his seemingly permanent place at his brother's side, “Without you the city will tear itself apart,”

 

“The city has already torn itself apart.” Fenris growled softly and bristled as Cullen glared at him, “One only has to look outside to see that.”

 

“I’ll stay,” Garrett pinched his nose and Carver winced internally. His brother only ever pinched his nose like that when he was on his last reserves, when he was exhausted and almost empty of magic and energy, “The fact remains that there will be consequences for what happened here today. I’ll stay now to help stabilise the city, but I may have to leave if the chantry...well...you know.”

 

Silence fell.

 

Everyone did know.

 

"There is one other matter," Cullen's voice was quiet, but everyone heard him. Carver glanced at the Templar and followed the line of his sight, seeing it settle on Anders sitting alone nearby.

 

The Mage looked awful.

 

There was really no other way of putting it. His hair was dull and lank around his face, half tied up and half fluttering about his face. His cheeks were gaunt, dark, bruised circles under his amber eyes. His fingers clutching his staff were skeletal, and the fingernails were chapped, cracked and bloody from anxious chewing.

 

He didn’t look like a hero or a revolutionary...he looked driven, hunted and strangely small, now faced with the consequences of his ‘no compromise’,

 

"I already decided his fate." Garrett's voice was firm and Carver could see his brother shifting slightly, like he was readying himself for yet another fight, "Meredith left him to me to deal with."

 

"I'm aware Champion," Cullen sounded tired, bone tired, "The fact remains however that he is a danger to himself and to others. And that he cannot remain here."

 

"He'll return with us." Nathaniel spoke up for the first time from his place beside Carver and the younger man arched a surprised brow at his companion, "Anders is a Grey Warden. He has tried, but he can never run from that, and he is our responsibility."

 

Anders seemed to stir a little at that, "No I..."

 

"You don't get a say," Nathaniel's voice had a harsh edge to it as he shot a glare at the blond mage, who blinked up at him, looking a little dazed, "Katrin ordered that no one look for you, that we weren't the Templar order, to go and drag you back. She hoped you'd come home on your own. But things have changed now." He looked up at Garrett, who looked torn, and Cullen, who looked pensive, "I think it's the best solution."

 

"I won't go..." Anders mumbled, head lifting exhaustedly, "I'll escape..."

 

"Don't be a fool Anders." Nathaniel growled, "You know I'd find you far faster than those Templars of yours."

 

Anders' mouth tightened, before he looked up at Garrett pleadingly. Carver's brother looked thoughtful, but not certain.

 

"I would need your vow that he would not be harmed," he said finally, looking at Nate, before glancing at Carver, "He needs to live in this world he created."

 

"There will be no punishment." Nate assured him, shaking his head, "However the life of a Warden is dangerous. I cannot guarantee his safety past that point."

 

"And you brother?" Garrett finally met Carver's gaze, "What do you think?"

 

All eyes turned to Carver.

 

Once he would have preened and gloated at his brother seeking his counsel, seeing it as a sign that he was uncertain and therefore not as perfect as everyone liked to think. Now...now he knew far more. Now he knew that seeking counsel was a sign of strength, that asking for advice from all angles and sources was sensible rather than a sign of uncertainty.

 

"I think it's the most sensible option." Carver folded his arms, shifting uncomfortably at the scrutiny directed his way, "Anders can't stay here. And you won't kill him. If he's abandoned alone, someone will seek retribution...The Grey Wardens are the best option. He’s one of us…Nathaniel’s right. He can’t run from that forever.”

 

“Hawke…” Anders’ voice was weak, but pleading, “Please...don’t do this…”

 

Garrett looked away, jaw clenched, pain and tiredness etched on his face, and Carver saw red.

 

“You’re the one who put him in this situation!” he snapped at the Mage, ignoring Nathaniel’s gentle, restraining hand on his arm, “You almost got him killed defending the Mages  _ you   _ almost got massacred!” 

 

Anders stared up at him, eyes wide, and Carver found himself barrelling onwards, “ _ You _ almost got every single person in this room killed. You have caused war, and strife and grief and yet you beg him to save you from returning from a duty YOU RAN AWAY FROM!” His voice rose to a cracked shout, only to cut off when Garrett strode forward to pull him close. 

 

They’d never been much for touchy-feeling. Even at the best of times Garrett had been snarky and Carver had felt oafish and stupid. Garrett’s sharp tongue had always been able to run laps around him. But now...Carver was older, and last night they’d reconciled. And about time too.

 

“Stop…” Garrett breathed, “I don’t need...we don’t need...okay?”

 

Carver nodded, and closed his eyes, resting his forehead against his brothers.

 

Silence fell again in the room as the brothers stood together, Carver’s angry breaths calming down.

 

Anders spoke into the silence, his voice quiet.

 

“I’ll go.”

 

“Good.” Nathaniel coughed softly and Carver reopened his eyes, stepping away from his brother reluctantly. It had been nice to be held...even for just a moment, “Well, we’ll be gone from here at first light.”

 

“I…” Everyone glanced around in surprise at Fenris, who was the one who had spoken. The tattooed elf looked sombre, but thoughtful as he looked between Anders, Nathaniel and then Carver himself, “will join you.”

 

“Fenris…” Garrett sounded shocked, even Varric looked poleaxed, “No...you don’t have to go…”

 

“No. I do not have to. I do not  _ have  _ to do anything any longer.” Fenris agreed, before turning back to Nathaniel, “I wish to go with you.”

 

“Be a Grey Warden?” Carver blurted, “Really?”

 

“Perhaps.” Fenris, shrugged lithely, “It is something i wish to consider. The journey will allow me to decide.”

 

Nathaniel glanced at Carver,

 

“He’d make a fine Warden.” Carver agreed, knowing his superior wanted his opinion, “He’s the best warrior I know.”

 

“High praise.” Nathaniel looked thoughtful before turning back to Fenris, “Very well, travel with us to Amaranthine, if you still wish to when we get there, I will recruit you into the Order.”

 

Fenris nodded, not looking at Garrett who looked stunned, and a little sad.

 

* * *

 

Nathaniel headed to the harbour to secure passage on a ship bound for Ferelden, leaving orders for Carver to take Anders and Fenris up to the small manor owned by the Grey Wardens, used for a base when they had business in the city. He lead them up to the bedrooms and hunted through the armory room, returning with a set of Warden armour for each of his companions.

 

He located a set that was in the medium weight range for Fenris. The heavier armours usually favoured by warriors wouldn't suit the elf, since Fenris preferred to use speed and agility rather than 'stand and deliver' combat. The black, silver and blue leathers were augmented with Fenris' own gauntlets, although he traded his breastplate for one emblazoned with the griffin rampant. As always he eschewed footwear and once kitted out he headed into the next room to sharpen his blade, leaving Carver with Anders.

 

The Mage looked a bit lost, staring at the Warden Mage robes that Carver pushed into his hands.

 

"Come on Magey," Carver sighed, reaching out to give the man's shoulders a little shake, "Get into the robes,"

 

"Why?" Anders' voice was dull, "What's the point?"

 

Carver was a bit flummoxed with how to deal with this Anders. He was used to sassy and sarcastic banter, insults and antagonism. Not...apathy.

 

"We have to leave the city, and you're too bloody obvious in that coat."

 

A spark seemed to return to Anders' eyes as his fingers lifted to touch the rich black feathers, "Your brother gave me this. It was a gift..."

 

"I don't much care." Carver growled back, pleased to see a little life return to him, "It has to go."

 

"No!" Anders glared at him, and Carver was almost faint with relief, "I'm not letting the Grey Wardens take anything else from me. Shove off Carver."

 

"You're the reason we have to leave this city!" Carver insisted, shoving the Mage armour into Anders' arms. Glad as he was to see a bit of life return to the amber eyes, the facts remained as they were. "And you're too easily recognised in that bloody coat."

 

Anders looked stricken, but his fingers clutched stubbornly at the fabric.

 

"Do as he says Mage." Fenris' voice came from the doorway and Anders' face flushed.

 

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, a little rudely, but since it was Anders and Fenris, Carver elected not to comment, "And what are you wearing!"

 

"Fenris is joining the Wardens, remember?" Carver informed the Mage, rolling his eyes.

 

“ _ What _ ?!”

 

Fenris sniffed disdainfully, “Yes I offered my services while you were wallowing in your martyrdom.”

 

Anders flushed, “You of all people should understand that when it comes to slavery-”

 

“Do not presume to think you know  _ anything  _ about slavery Mage!”

 

“Both of you shut up!” Carver snapped, glaring at both of them, before relenting a little, "You can take the coat with you, but you have to get into this gear at least for now."

 

Anders eyed him, before sighing and taking the robes with a huff. He stalked off to get changed, feeling more modesty than Fenris had, and Carver pinched the bridge of his nose, echoing his brother’s earlier exhaustion.

 

It was going to be a very long journey home.

 


	2. Chapter 1: The Sky Is Falling

_ Four Years Later _

 

Smoke choked the sky.

 

Carver could feel it burning in his lungs, his eyes stung from it and he knew that the soot in the air had smeared with blood and sweat on his skin. He staggered, lifting a hand and trying to peer through the murk.

 

Where was he? 

 

For a moment he could see the tall towers of Kirkwall, see the thick smoke rolling over the city, could hear the screams of the dying and the fighting as the Mages and Templars tore themselves apart.

 

But this wasn’t Kirkwall, somehow he knew, he knew this wasn’t Kirkwall at all. Kirkwall had been years ago and there was no smell, no reek of the stagnant salt water of the harbour, the terrible rot of the lower city and the despair of the Gallows. It wasn’t right, and sure enough a moment later the vision faded into the smoke again.

 

He staggered forward, scrambling over some loose stones because he had to move. Some instinct warned him that staying still would mean death, that he didn’t belong here, wherever here was. So he pressed forward, into the smoke and ruin until he came to another stumbling halt, still lost, still half blinded by raw weeping eyes and harsh smoke.

 

“There has to be a way out of here…” 

 

It felt good to speak the words aloud, even if they fell unnaturally into the strangely charged air. He stayed where he was for another moment before suddenly the smoke parted, and he saw the way ahead, a path clear up a mountain. Ahead of him a glowing bright being beckoned with urgency in her motions. He wasn’t sure how he knew it was a her that called him onwards, only that he knew, and that he was sure. But the next second it didn’t matter as he heard a terrible, rattling, clicking sound echoing from the way he’d come. 

 

He twisted and his blue eyes widened at the sight of a swarm of many legged insects scuttling towards him, their giant pincers snapping with eager hunger, slavering drops falling on the parched ground and hissing as they did, smoke curling up.

 

Carver didn’t hang around to see any more. 

 

He took off at a sprint, charging up the mountain, feeling the weight of his heavy armour weighing him down, holding him back, even as he pushed forwards, the bright figure always ahead, always urging him on.

 

Faster, she seemed to scream at him, faster, FASTER!

 

He glanced back only once and almost fell at how close the beasts were. He didn’t dare look back again, but he swore he could feel their hot, fetid, slavering breath on the back of his neck as he threw himself over the crest of the hill, the figure reaching out for him at the cusp of a portal.

 

There was no time to hesitate, to wonder where the portal lead.

 

He flung himself forward, reaching for her hand, and felt the world spin around him, whirling in sickening speed and colour until suddenly he was spat out, standing, reeling on good solid earth once more.

 

For a brief moment he saw the surprised faces staring at him, men and women in standard armour gaping at him, but the next moment…he knew no more.

 

* * *

 

He awoke to pain.

 

Everything hurt, every bone in his body ached, every joint, every muscle, every nerve throbbed with the pain one can only get from a solid beating. He groaned, disoriented, before he lifted his head and stilled. 

 

Four sword points were levelled at his throat.

 

His wrists were heavy with manacles chained to the floor, holding him upright even as they held him still. He looked down at them, frowning slightly as he twisted his wrists, only to yelp with shock as suddenly his hand blazed with green fire and lightning, sparking out uncontrollably, like Garrett’s early attempts at using the shock powers.

 

He stared at his hand, eyes wide and mouth agape when the door burst open, admitting two women.

 

The warrior barely got time to see a brief impression of dark, choppy hair, and flashing dark eyes before suddenly his head was yanked back and an icy blade rested against his bare throat. He panted, stilling once again as the woman held the sword still against his skin. Once movement, from either of them, and it would slice into his throat.

 

“I should kill you right now.” The woman growled, fury rolling off the accented words. Nevarran he thought, with the faint idleness that only life threatening danger could bring to observation, “I suggest you give me a reason not to…”

 

“Why…” he croaked, and winced as his lip cracked, welling with copper tanged blood, “Why would you kill me?”

 

“The Conclave was destroyed.” The woman spat the words, before moving around to face him. She was a handsome woman, with a strong jaw and a scar down one cheek, but her eyes were cold as she gazed at him, her mouth pressed in a harsh line, “Along with everyone who attended. Everyone that is…except you.”

 

Wait…what?

 

“Destroyed?” Carver gaped at her, “By what?”

 

“We don’t know.” She admitted, before her blade pressed against his jugular once more, “Except that you were found right at the heart of it.”

 

“You think…you think I did it?” He blinked, stunned, before barking a disbelieving laugh, “You’ve got to be joking!”

 

“Do I sound like I’m joking!” Her sword twisted slightly and pain shot through his neck.

 

The second woman darted forward then, her pale eyes flicking from the woman standing over him, to Carver himself.

 

“We need him Cassandra!” she hissed, catching the woman’s arm, “We need him alive.”

 

That voice… he knew that voice.

 

He peered up at her, caught sight of a stray lock of red gold hair and suddenly he recognised her. It had been eleven years since he’d last seen her, sunlight from the chantry windows in Lothering making her hair shine like a halo, kneeling before the pulpit, her soft voice reciting the Chant, and making the tired verses almost sing as they fell from her lips.

 

He’d gone there because he was marching out the next day, on to Ostagar and battle with the feared Darkspawn. He’d wanted to speak to her, the pretty red haired laysister, with her kind smile and gentle eyes, wanted to pluck up the courage to tell her…something, whatever it was that infatuated young men told beautiful women. He’d been too afraid, too shy to approach her like that before.

 

And he’d been too afraid again.

 

Instead he’d knelt in a pew and whispered with her, reciting the familiar words, even as his stomach churned with his cowardice and his skin prickled with awareness of her presence.

 

“Maker bless you Master Hawke.” Were the last words she’d said to him, and he’d treasured them, even as his heart ached when he staggered back into Lothering and seen the Chantry on fire. He’d always quietly grieved her death.

 

Until now.

 

“Sister Leliana?” he breathed, and she stilled before crouching down in front of him, “Makers breath it’s really…it’s really you…”

 

“Who are you?” she barked, her eyes, so much colder than he remembered them being, fixed on his, “How do you know my name?”

 

“I…” he faltered, and winced as he licked his lips, “My name is Carver. My family lived in Lothering…?”

 

He wasn’t sure why he’d ended that like it was a question, rather than the statement of fact it was. Maybe a part of him hoped she’d remember him, the nothing, scrawny boy from the lickspit village far away, so long ago.

 

She studied him, her face creasing into a small frown, before her fingers touched his chin, tilting it slightly towards the faint torchlight.

 

He saw her eyes widen and then the fingers left his skin.

 

“What was your name again? Your full name?”

 

“Carver.” He glanced at the other woman, Cassandra, standing arms folded, impatiently waiting “My name is Carver Hawke.”

 

“Hawke?” Suddenly Cassandra was there too; crouched beside him, interest sparking in those dark gold eyes, “Did you say Hawke?”

 

Carver winced. He’d forgotten for a moment how famous that name now was, and the associations given to it. Hardly a way to look innocent, being a Hawke, when the Champion had been there when the Chantry exploded. Some whispered he’d been involved, some whispered he’d been the rebel apostate to blow it up. 

 

“Yeah,” he admitted, “Hawke.”

 

“Cassandra?” Leliana asked softly as the Nevarran woman stared at him, “Is this the Champion?”

 

“No,” both Carver and Cassandra spoke at the same time, but it was Cassandra who finished, “It is his brother. Varric mentioned him, said that he’d been recruited by the Grey Wardens. Is that true?” She asked him, gaze turning steely and calculating once more.

 

“Yeah,” he nodded, “The Fereldan Grey Wardens.”

 

“What were you doing at the Conclave?” Leliana asked, curious now, a frown on her face.

 

“My Commander sent me,” Carver admitted, straightening up a little and looking down at the non-descript mercenary armour he had on, “Technically Grey Wardens weren’t supposed to attend, we’re supposed to be above political stuff like the Conclave.”

 

“But your Commander wanted to know what was going on?” Leliana mused, before nodding, “Understandable. So what happened?”

 

“I…” he frowned, and shook his head, “I can’t really remember…I remember running, these ghastly crawling things were chasing me…and there was…a woman...glowing.”

 

“A woman?” Leliana shot Cassandra a sharp look.

 

“She reached out to me…and then…Maker I can’t…I can’t remember…”

 

“Can’t? Or won’t.” Cassandra sneered, getting to her feet again, “Leliana I need you to get to the forward Camp. I will bring him to the Rift.”

 

Leliana paused before nodding and straightened up as well, leaving with some of the guards. Cassandra sheathed her blade and crouched once more, this time undoing the manacles, rather more roughly than was necessary, Carver thought.

 

“What did happen?” he asked, “What did you mean that the Conclave was destroyed?”

 

“It will be easier just to show you.” Cassandra hauled him up to his feet, wrists still tightly bound, “Come.”

 

She marched him out of the door and Carver stumbled along beside her until suddenly cold air washed over him and he sucked in a deep breath, looking up as she pulled him through the final two doors out of the Chantry and into the snow outside. Haven, he recognised idly, before his eyes were drawn inexorably upwards to the sky and a ghastly green column of fire and lightning, stretching from the mountains up into the clouds.

 

“Maker's breath…” he breathed, gaping at the sight.

 

“We call it the Breach.” Cassandra informed him, “It is a portal of sorts with the Fade, transporting demons from that world into our own. It is not the only such rift, but it is the largest, and it is growing with every passing moment. We fear it will swallow the world…given enough time. And it started with the explosion at the Conclave.”

 

“An explosion did that?” Carver shook his head, “Really?”

 

“This one did.”

 

Light suddenly flared from the Breach and Carver looked up to see lightning sparking even wilder before he cried out as the mark on his hand seared into life once more.

 

The agony was terrible and he sank to his knees, trying to bite back the scream that threatened to fall from his lips, clutching his hand to his chest.

 

As it faded, he looked up and saw Cassandra in front of him once more, but this time pity was in her eyes.

 

“Your mark grows with the Breach, spreading…and it is killing you.”

 

He panted, and looked up at her once more, “So they are connected?”

 

“It does appear so.”

 

“So how…how do we stop it, the Breach and…this…” he wiggled his fingers.

 

“We are not sure, but we think your mark may be able to stop the Breach. I need you to come with me into the valley, and try…”

 

He looked at her, and saw for the first time the bags under her eyes, the tense lines around her mouth. She thought he’d done this, she still thought that, but…she was asking him for help. That said more than anything else just how desperate things were.

 

“Right…” he tried for a weak smile, “In war, victory, eh?”

 

“So…”

 

“Let’s go.” He sighed and struggled to his feet, “Let’s try it.”

 

Her arm steadied him as he swayed and for the first time the touch wasn’t rough, or violent.

 

“Thank you.” She strode ahead, and tugged him along with her, “Come. We have a ways to go before we reach the Rift.”

 

* * *

 

It felt like he’d been shooting arrows for days, and really he kind of had been, Varric thought, firing another crossbow bolt into a wraith, which shuddered and vanished.

 

The fight was never ending, demons constantly pouring out of the Fade, ravening over the ground, throwing themselves at the forces, which unlike theirs, were never replenished. So many had died, he’d never seen so much death and destruction, not even after Blondie had kicked the Mage Rebellion into action.

 

He was fixing another bolt to Bianca when suddenly the temp of the fight changed. The demons hissed as two figures joined them.

 

The woman he recognised instantly, Cassandra. He made sure to stand clear of her. The man charged into the battle, wearing the nondescript armour of travellers and Mercenaries alike, but the way he wielded the huge two handed sword was many cuts above regular soldiery.

 

And…familiar.

 

The man sliced through the last demon and the portal above them, the Rift, shuddered, seething, as though it was thinking about what to do next.

 

Next thing he knew, Solas, the mage ally of Cassandra’s, who’d been fighting with him by this Rift for hours, had darted forward and grabbed the male warrior’s wrist.

 

“Quickly, before any more come through…” 

 

He shoved the hand up and green fire blazed across the palm. A strand of pure power and magic connected the man’s palm to the Rift, snaking and ebbing between them. It seethed for a long moment, the hum of power rising to a crescendo before the young man curled his fingers and thrust out with his other hand.

 

The Rift exploded.

 

And when Varric looked back, the sky where it had hung was as empty as it should have been.

 

“Holy shit,” the man breathed, before laughing, and Varric’s stomach lurched because Ancestors that voice was familiar too, “It worked!”

 

“It did.” Solas agreed, a small smile touching his lips, “It was clear that whatever caused the Rifts also caused the Mark to be placed upon your hand, hence I theorised it could be used in it’s..unravelling.”

 

“So it could close the Breach also?” Cassandra’s face was more animated than Varric had ever seen it, but he was far more focused on the man, with the broad shoulders and ink black hair.

 

“Very likely.” Solas concurred, “It seems you’re the answer to the problem we’ve been puzzling over.”

 

“That’s excellent news.” Varric drawled, eyes fixed on the back of the male warrior so intently that he saw when the muscles under that armour tensed. He recognised his voice in return, and Varric had a very sinking feeling he knew just who it was who’d stumbled into this mess.

 

The Hawke family could always be relied upon to get itself in trouble.

 

“I thought we’d all be ass deep in demons for the rest of our lives.” He continued, before pausing, as the man turned to face him and he met a pair of startlingly blue, but very familiar, eyes, “It’s good to see you again Junior.”

 

Carver stared at him, fingers subconsciously clenching over the mark in his hand, almost like he was trying to hide it, and Varric bit down a faintly hysterical laugh. 

 

“Varric…” Carver gritted out, but Varric knew the boy, although he was a man now, not the awkward fumbling boy he’d been, well enough to see anxiety ripple through those bright blue eyes, “What are the chances that you will forget about all this?”

 

“You’re kidding right?” Varric spread his arms, “All of this is juicy stuff, the stuff of stories!” 

 

Carver looked vaguely ill and Varric hid a grin. It seemed that the elder Hawke didn’t know about his siblings attendance at the Conclave. As far as Varric was aware, Hawke firmly believed that Carver was far, far away from Orlais and Fereldan. And it seemed that the younger Hawke brother had wanted to keep it that way.

 

“So you are the Champions brother.” Cassandra moved forward and Varric bit down a soft curse. Cassandra was far too interested in the figure Hawke made, far too intrigued by his story…and his qualities. She had been searching for him with remarkable tenacity…and now she had his brother, “The younger Hawke.”

 

“That’s me.” Carver sighed, glancing at Varric who pulled a face, “Grey Warden Hawke to most people.”

 

“The Little Hawke to his friends.” Varric chimed in, unable to resist.

 

Carver gave him a filthy look.

 

So worth it.

 

“I’m Solas, if we’re doing introductions.” The elf chimed in, a glimmer of amusement on his angular features, “Apostate mage, and Cassandra’s Fade expert.”

 

“Difficult work…” Carver acknowledged, “The Fade is rather dangerous. Not many Mages specialise in it for that reason.”

 

“Do you know much of Magic?” Solas asked curiously, interest now behind his eyes, “You are not one yourself I see…”

 

“No…” Carver sheathed his greatsword and shrugged, “But there were many Mages, Apostates of course, in my family. And the Grey Wardens have many Magic users as well. I don’t pretend to know as much as a Mage…but I know some.”

 

And he knew Blondie too, Varric added silently, and that was a hell of a warning story for well-intentioned Magic if ever there was one.

 

“We need to keep moving; we must get you to the Breach, and see what can be done with your Mark.” Cassandra was restless, glancing up at the green column of fire.

 

“Yeah alright.” Carver agreed and they set off, Solas moving up to murmur to Cassandra up the front and Carver falling back into step with Varric. The dwarf heard the elven mage murmur about unusual and dangerous magic, before he tuned it out and looked up at the man beside him.

 

Carver Hawke. He’d known him since he was nineteen years of age, full of anger at the world, surly anger lashing out everywhere. He’d changed a lot in the ten years following, grown into a fine young man. He was taller, broader even if that was possible. Carver had always had the physique of a warrior, one who wielded a huge weapon, with muscle on muscle. It suited him, as did the air of maturity he wore now. The Wardens had been good for him, which had been a great relief to both him, and the elder Hawle. If it hadn’t been for Bertrand’s betrayal, Carver might never have been infected….or he might have been infected before that…he’d never really know. But he’d always felt a little responsible.

 

“You look good Junior.” He informed him, and was rewarded by the faint curling upwards of the warrior's lips, “You know aside from the whole most wanted prisoner alive thing.”

 

Carver snorted and glanced down at him, “Thanks, I think.”

 

“So are you innocent? You never really struck me as the whole…destroying buildings in an explosion of great fire type.”

 

“To be fair…neither did Anders.”

 

“True, but who likes being fair,” Varric snorted, “Before Blondie I’d never even considered it as an option or character trait. And you still don’t strike me as the type.”

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

“Junior, have I taught you nothing?”

 

“Virtually,” was the quick retort and Varric bit down a grin. He’d forgotten how much fun Hawkes were.

 

“You tell a story.”

 

“That is what you’d do Varric.” Cassandra barked back and Varric winced, “Some people have more integrity.”

 

“Hey there’s less chance of being pegged for mass homicide.” Varric spread his hands and looked up at Carver again, who was frowning down at his hand, “You really can’t remember can you?”

 

Carver had always been so bluntly honest, almost incapable of deception. And it seemed that it held true, even now after all these years.

 

“No…” Carver murmured, sighing, “I really can’t remember.”

 

* * *

 

 

He had not been what she expected.

 

Cassandra had to admit that to herself as she trudged along the mountain path, the broad back of the prisoner, Carver Hawke, acting rather like a bulwark to the biting, icy wind that blew around them. He was not what she had expected.

 

When her soldiers had reported to her the story of the man who stepped out of the Fade, the woman lingering behind him, and the Mark on his hand, she'd immediately jumped to the obvious conclusion. This was the man at fault, the killer of Justinia and all those people.

 

Solas had been the one to inform her, quietly and with intent curiosity, that the man in question was not a Mage, as she first had thought. Which also ruled out her fear that the man found had been Anders, whose explosion had created this whole mess to begin with.

 

But he was not Anders. Not a mage. And when he'd awoken, disoriented and confused, she'd found herself wanting to believe in his guilt, rather than actually believing it. Surely, surely it had to be him, he was the only person they'd found near the Conclave. He had a Mark which affected the Rifts the Breach had created.

 

Her surety had taken another blow when his name was revealed. Carver Hawke, the younger brother to the Champion of Kirkwall, who she'd spent years of her life trying to track down. The younger brother who'd become a Grey Warden, but who had still been there for the important events according to the account Varric had provided her.

 

Now she was confused, and she didn't like the uncertainty of confusion.

 

"That guy was an arse." his voice broke into her concentration and she looked up to see bright blue eyes glancing back at her over the broad shoulders, "The paper-pusher. He was an arse."

 

Roderick. Cassandra snorted, and shrugged her shoulders, "He is trying to do what he thinks is right for the Chantry. He is simply incorrect."

 

Carver barked a laugh, "I've had to deal with his like before. They cause trouble because they feel slighted." his lips curled a little wryly, "You did better than I would have. I would have been tempted to punch him."

 

Cassandra snorted "Years of practice I assure you."

 

He glanced back again, eyes crinkling at the corners, and again Cassandra felt that frisson of doubt.

 

"I heard what he said by the way, 'On your head be the consequences Seeker'." he managed to imitate Roderick's whining tones almost flawlessly, "What he meant was, 'If this goes pear-shaped, he's going to dump the blame on your head. And if it goes well...well you're going to get none of the credit."

 

“I do not require credit. The Breach is the only thing that matters. And if your Mark can close it, then we must try.”

 

“Still….” Carver sighed and shrugged, shifting his armour slightly. She’d noticed he was uncomfortable in the mercenary get up that he wore, and it seemed it was still true, “Arse.”

 

They fell into quiet once more, leaving them alone in their thoughts until they reached the summit and he took the lead, naturally stepping confidently out, unsheathing the huge blade strapped across his shoulders.

 

It took a powerful warrior to wield a weapon like that. 

 

Powerful enough to kill the Divine?

 

She was no longer so sure.

 

* * *

 

“So his Mark seals the Rifts.” Cullen folded his arms and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, “And it stabilised the Breach, and you are now sure of his innocence Cassandra?”

 

The Seeker nodded, hands planted firmly on the solid oak table.

 

“I heard the voices in the temple. The Divine called out to him, told him to flee. He…Carver, was angry you could hear it in his voice. And then a third voice ordered others to kill ‘the intruder’. That voice called the Divine…the Sacrifice. I do not believe Carver Hawke responsible.”

 

“Which leaves us with nothing.” Leliana murmured, sighing, lacing her fingers together, “We have no suspect, no one to blame for the Divine’s death.”

 

“But we do have a way to seal the Rifts.” Cassandra straightened up, “He saw a woman in the Fade, the guards who found him, saw her too. They are saying it was Andraste, that he is chosen,”

 

“The Chantry won’t like that.” Josephine spoke up from the corner, arching an eyebrow over the rim of her writing pad, “They will decry us as heretics, and potentially with good reason.”

 

“I must believe the Maker’s hand is in this,” Cassandra shook her head, “I must believe that he brought Carver Hawke to us. He is exactly what we needed…how can that not be design?”

 

“Then…it is time to formally form the Inquisition? To fulfill Justinia’s command?” Leliana asked softly, “We do not have an Inquisitor.”

 

“We do not need one,” Cassandra remarked, before amending, “Not yet. But if we do plan on doing this, now is the time to do so. Word is spreading of the Herald of Andraste, of how he stepped out of the Fade guided by her. It’s a powerful symbol and people are flocking to Haven. If he is willing, we should ask the young Hawke to join us.”

 

“I remember him from Kirkwall,” Cullen remarked, “I took note of him at the time, but he was always there at his brother’s back, before he became a Grey Warden. I saw him a few times subsequently, some Templar rogues kidnapped him as bait for his brother. But I do remember him.”

 

“And?” Leliana prompted, eyeing him interestedly, “What were your opinions?”

 

“He expressed interest in joining the Templars, before he was recruited to the Wardens of course. He seemed…hunted….” Cullen frowned, “I didn’t realise til later of course that he was protecting his Mage brother…but my first impression was that he seemed a blunt, honest sort. With a temper…”

 

“There are worse things to start with.” Josephine finished a note on her page with a flourish, “Though we may have to keep him away from any diplomats we have to..”

 

She was cut off as the door banged open and Roderick barged in, face red with bluster and righteous fury.

 

“What is this I hear of the Prisoner being called ‘the Herald of Andraste’!” he demanded, “What heresy is this Seeker?”

 

“We will leave you to discuss this…” Cullen backed towards the door, and snagged Josephine’s arm. The two of them ducked out of the room and shut the door behind them as the shouting began.

 

“I must…go see to our forces. Lady Montilyet.” Cullen bowed and hurried away, glancing back at the door now and then like he expected a swarm of demons to burst forth.

 

Josephine chuckled to herself and made a note on her pad.

 

Just for that, she would make sure that Cullen would be the one to deal with Lady Ponforte, if she did indeed come to visit as she was…threatening. The Lady was a devout Andrastian, in everything except chastity, and she was certain that both the esteemed Commander and the young Carver Hawke would be within her sights.

 

It seemed a fitting punishment she thought, stepping into the room she’d claimed as her own and quietly shutting the door.

 

And it might even put a smile on Leliana’s face again.

 

* * *

 

 

The loss of his memory frustrated Carver. 

 

He remembered Katrin, her face pale and drawn, staring at him across her desk, “You can’t hear it?” She’d asked him.

 

“Hear what?”

 

She’d stared at him for a long moment longer before turning back to her desk, picking up a quill and parchment. She dipped the quill in the ink and scribbled out a set of orders, passing them to him.

 

“The Chantry is preparing to make a move on the issue of the Mage and Templar war. Negotiations have begun to bring the leaders of the two factions together to foster a treaty of peace. It will be many months yet before this reconciliation is attempted but I need a Warden on the inside. Use your family name, find out what is going on. The Wardens must be prepared.”

 

“Yes Commander,”

 

Her smile had been sad...that he remembered.

 

He remembered the Temple as well, not the events that happened, but he remembered the bustling halls which had been restored after the Blight, remembered the Most Holy Divine and her warm smile, her light hands that felt cool to the touch when she blessed him, welcoming him to the Conclave.

 

“We are honoured to have a Warden among us…”

 

But after that...nothing.

 

“You’re scowling again Junior.” Varric’s voice broke into his reverie and Carver looked up to see the dwarf standing by his seat. 

 

He’d been given a small room in the Chantry to live in, and he’d taken to hiding in there, shaken by the looks of reverence and whispers of blessings on the Herald. That would have been all well and good except that  _ he  _ was the Herald...and wasn’t that just a farce if ever there was one. Out of the Hawke twins, Bethany had been the one fascinated by the Chantry. She’d been the believer, her low voice murmuring the Chant in the pew next to him whenever he joined her in her prayers. 

 

He’d only ever gone to the Chantry to be with her, or to sigh over the pretty redheaded laysister...who was now the Inquisition spy master, hilariously enough. He was no divinely chosen leader, and these people flocking to Haven were doomed to be disappointed in him, and sod it all if he was going to encourage them in that.

 

It seemed that Varric had decided to seek him out however.

 

“Dwarf,” he greeted, sliding back into the familiarity of snide comments, “Do you need something?”

 

“Just stopping by to check on my favourite Chosen One.” Varric grinned at him, and when Carver scowled at him even more darkly he held up a hand clutching a bottle, “I bring the finest wine to help.”

 

“Well then...I suppose you can stay,” Carver informed him, like it was some kind of hardship, “So you’ve seen the insanity out there then?”

 

“You mean the pilgrims just coming to catch a whiff of your smelly socks?” Varric chuckled, taking a seat and producing two metal goblets from somewhere in his tunic, “Yes, and laughed myself sick over it.”

 

“It’ll blow over right?” Carver propped his cheek on his hand, “It has to surely. No one who’s ever met me would ever think I’m the Herald of Andraste.”

 

“The Seeker does,” Varric pointed out dryly.

 

“The Seeker is suffering from a lack of purpose.” Carver growled, thunking his head on the desk, “I’m not sure if I prefer being the Herald to being the destroyer of the Conclave.”

 

“Sure you do,” the dwarf informed him, pouring them both a drink and pushing one of the goblets against Carver’s hand, “Less chance of untimely execution.”

 

“Except at the hands of the Chantry as a heretic.”

 

“Well yes, except for that. But think of the story someone will have to tell about it.”

 

“Someone meaning you.”

 

“Possibly.” Varric shrugged, “Someone has to do it after all.”

 

“Great,” Carver grabbed his goblet and gulped a big mouthful of mead, “Just what I always wanted, to be your next Hawke project.”

 

“You know,” Varric arched an eyebrow at him, lips tweaking up, “I thought you were going to be a lot more excited about your new exalted status. Didn’t you always want to be the hero Junior?”

 

Carver lifted his head and glared at him, “I never wanted to be a bloody hero.” he growled, “What I wanted...I wanted to be equal with Garrett. I didn’t want people to look at me and just see his baby brother. I wanted to be...I wanted to be seen as me. But of course I couldn’t be equal with Garrett, because the idiot is a bloody hero.”

 

“And now you are.”

 

“No,” Carver shook his head, “I got a mark on my hand and survived a big blast, out of sheer bloody luck. I haven’t earned any of this. I don’t…”

 

Varric smiled at him, a little sadly as he reached out to thump a large, strong hand on Carver’s shoulder, “You know Junior...you really did grow up all right.”

 

Carver flushed and drank more of his goblet of mead, “Shut it.”

 

* * *

 

He emerged from the Chantry at dusk, his thick, comfortable Warden issue cloak clasped about his shoulders, billowing slightly in the mountain air, and his hood very firmly up over his head. 

 

He strode down the paths with purpose, hand tucked firmly in his pocket, as though that would stop the green light from being visible if it decided to spark. His hand would always give him away as the Herald, so he had to hope that the stupid thing really would refrain from blaring it’s violently green light everywhere.

 

The walls were his destination and it was only on the battlements, with the biting wind nipping at the bits of exposed skin it found, that he felt like he could breathe again. 

 

His shoulders dropped, and he could feel the tension in them, like he’d been carrying them up around his ears with anxiety. And perhaps he had. It wasn’t easy to go from the most hated criminal in the region to a beloved prophet, a blessing personified from the Maker.

 

He certainly didn’t feel like a blessing, and while Varric’s wine had taken a little of the edge off, he still wasn’t sure what he wanted to do now.

 

“Are you planning on disappearing?” a soft voice spoke from the shadows and Carver whipped around, hand reaching back automatically for a sword that wasn’t strapped there. A moment later and the voice registered as familiar and he straightened up, blue eyes picking out the silhouette of the bald elf, half shrouded in shadow.

 

“You spying on me?” Carver growled, turning back to the view, and seeing the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the mountain top that had once been the Temple of Sacred Ashes, tinged with green from the Breach.

 

“Not at all.” Solas moved forward, prowling with the catlike grace that only elves seemed to have, “I am….simply curious.”

 

Carver shot him a look, words trembling on the tip of his tongue. Bitter words, angry words… it was familiar to revert back to such snipes and snarls when he felt as vulnerable and as raw as he did right now.

 

But something about Solas’ keen pale brown eyes stopped him.

 

They were ancient eyes. He’d seen them on the older Wardens, men and women who had seen too much, who knew too much. This was a man who had suffered, who had gained hard won knowledge at a high cost. 

 

“You have questions?” he asked instead, turning back to the snowy landscape, “You’re not alone.”

 

“I imagine you also have a great many queries.” he heard the faintest rustle of fabric as Solas stepped up beside him, “Perhaps all will be revealed in time?”

 

“We may get answers,” Carver grunted, “But in my experience they only ever come with more questions.”

 

“Surely it is better to know more, than less?”

 

Why did it sound like the elf was testing him?

 

“‘Course,” he sighed, folding his ams as he leaned against the battlement, “But it doesn’t mean you can’t look back at the simpler times and miss them.”

 

Solas’ head cocked, like a bird, examining something fascinating.

 

“You speak like someone who has lost a great deal. In time...I think I would like to hear those stories. I do not think many men could have survived that Mark being placed upon their hand.” Solas’ thin lips curved upwards “There is clearly something...more to you, Carver Hawke.”

 

“I’m a pretty straightforward guy..” Carver disagreed, shaking his head, “Trust me. I’m as deep as a puddle.”

 

“In my experience,” Solas remarked, moving to walk past him and down the battlement stairs, “Some puddles...can be deceptively deep.”

.

He snorted, but there wasn’t much he could say to that. Instead he watched the Mage elf go and then turned back to stare at the Breach, thumb playing along the Mark, as he frowned slightly.

 

* * *

 

On his way back to the Chantry he paused in the open space before the Gates, as a man stepped out of the shadows.

 

He was familiar, even after four years, he wasn’t going to forget the face of the Knight Captain of Kirkwall, haggard and tired after the disaster that had unfolded.

 

Cullen looked older, but there was something settled about his face now, something that had always been missing back in Kirkwall. There was a calmness, a determination that had been lost or smothered before. Maybe that’s why he’d been drawn to the Knight Captain back when he’d simply been a refugee in the city, desperate to protect his brother from the Templar’s eyes.

 

He’d recognised something in him, something damaged, something restless, something broken.

 

The Captain had talked him through joining the Order. He wouldn’t have to give his brother up if he was a Templar, and perhaps it would attract less suspicion upon them if the Templar order looked kindly on them. 

 

And he’d needed something...something for himself. A purpose, a goal, a way to make the world better. The guards had turned him away because Aveline had asked them to, and it had left him with limited options. Gangs, bouncers, bodyguards….Templars.

 

Bethany had been the Chantry devotee. But she was dead. She was dead and somehow he wasn’t, even though some days he couldn’t imagine surviving without her in this world. He owed it to her to make it count...for both of them.

 

Cullen had been kind when he’d determinedly declared his interest, and he’d been impressed by Carver’s combat skills. He’d seen it in his eyes, a glint of something, appreciation maybe. And he knew he was in…

 

But then he’d joined the Wardens, and had never looked back.

 

“Carver Hawke,” Cullen remarked, stopping before him, a small smile on his lips, “I can hardly believe it.”

 

“Like a bad coin, we Hawkes’.” Carver’s lips curved up in response, “We always turn up when least expected.”

 

“You’d think I wouldn’t be surprised anymore.” Cullen chuckled, shaking his fair head, “Not after your brother, and everything he got up to.”

 

Once that would have made the young Hawke bristle.

 

Now he just smirked.

 

“And yet?”

 

“And yet.” Cullen’s amber gold eyes considered him, smile fading slightly, “I didn’t recognise you, you know, at first. Back when we were trying to close the Breach.”

 

Carver remembered his own shock and the frisson of something that had coursed through him at the sight of the familiar face. But it was understandable that the other hadn’t realised who Carver was. He was the last person to be expected, to be the criminal who killed the Divine. He’d also been a mess, dressed in the ill fitting armour of a mercenary or a basic soldier.

 

He’d been covered in blood from a blow to his head, grubby and smeared with muck. Varric had recognised him, but then Varric was weirdly perceptive. And he’d known Varric for longer.

 

It was understandable that in the heat of battle Cullen had failed to recognise a man he’d only met a couple of times.

 

“I was pretty dirty, and things were a bit desperate.” Carver shrugged, lips tweaking up in a crooked smile, “I’m not fussed.”

 

Cullen eyed him and sighed softly before stepping closer, fur lined cloak clasped tight about his shoulders.

 

“I have to ask Carver...Anders…”

 

The young Hawke stared at him before barking a humourless laugh.

 

“You think Anders, had something to do with this?”

 

“All I know…” Cullen pointed out quietly, “Is that the last time I saw you, you and that other Warden left with both Anders and the elf. And now here you are in the midst of an exploding building four years later…You can’t blame me for worrying, Carver.”

 

He didn’t blame him, not at all.

 

“Last I heard, Anders was back in Amaranthine with the Warden Commander and the other Wardens. He’s been….he’s changed. The man he is now wouldn’t do something like this.” Cullen rubbed a hand through his hair, obviously still unsure, and Carver gripped his arm, forcing those pale gold eyes to look at him, “You’re going to have to trust me Commander.”

 

The two men stood there, in the softly falling snow for another long minute before Cullen clasped Carver’s shoulder with a small smile, “I already do.”


End file.
